


With Love

by abovethesmokestacks



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Valentine's Day, bucky is a softie, it's all a bunch'a fluff, reader is nifty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 18:01:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17812787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovethesmokestacks/pseuds/abovethesmokestacks
Summary: Returning to his locker, Bucky freezes when he spots something poking out of one of the slats, something pink. The small hairs on his neck stand on end, his focus stretching, listening for intruders as he approaches his locker. It’s an envelope, tucked into the ventilation slats just enough to keep from slipping inside. Someone’s been here. Bucky snatches the envelope, quickly gathering his clothes and sprinting for the elevator. Inside the envelope is a plain white card, decorated with hearts made to look like balloons tied together with a neat little bow. Turning it over, he finds a neat, small script, the words shaking him to his core.happy valentine’s daywith love, from a mate and admirer





	With Love

**Author's Note:**

> Another crosspost that I meant to post on Valentine's Day, but work kind of got in the way. Still, there's no reason to skimp on love no matter what day it is. This was originally written based on a story a friend of mine told, so endless thanks to J- for letting me work the anecdote into a fic.

Bucky celebrates his last Valentine’s Day in the field, stuck on a mission in bloody Czechoslovakia and sharing a tent with a snoring Jim Morita while Bucky himself curses his misfortune. His mind keeps drifting to that girl he went out with the night before he shipped out, Bonnie. He hardly remembers what she looks like anymore, his memory too clouded by the horrors he’s seen, by the experiments he suffered. Turning over on the hard ground, Bucky swears that next year will be better. He’ll be home, he’ll give a proper Valentine’s Day card for the girl he’ll find, maybe splurge on some nice chocolates.

Or maybe-

He’ll still be here, but maybe, just maybe they will all have a nice day off, flirt with the girls working the makeshift command office. Most will have their fellas in the field, some will have lost them. He’ll have to make sure to sneak a note to them, just like he did in school. A folded piece of paper for the girls who weren’t inundated in valentines and trinkets, tucked into their bags or jacket pockets when they didn’t notice. It was nothing much, but he’d break out his nicest script, signing each card ”with love, a friend and admirer” and then smile when the recipients unfolded them and flushed such a pretty shade of pink. Everyone deserves a little attention, a little love.

As the months pass and the war continues with no end in sight, he resigns himself to another year following Steve and the Commandos into whatever danger HYDRA throws at them. Sometimes he thinks about the promise he made in Czechoslovakia, tucking away scraps of paper to use for the notes. He thinks about what to write on them, different compliments for the girls working at the base, signs his greeting in the air when Morita keeps him awake with his snoring. He will ask Steve if the Commandos can get a day off for Valentine’s Day.

He never gets to voice his question. Of all the thoughts rushing through his head as the train shrinks from him, the last one he remembers before everything goes black is that one. He’ll never get to ask Steve for Valentine’s Day off. He’ll never get to send those valentines.

* * *

He forgets celebration. Holidays are irrelevant. Non-critical for mission success. A successful mission is met only with debrief, check-up and back into cryo. Lather, rinse, repeat. But-

Sometimes.

Sometimes there is a stirring deep inside the Asset. February is a strange month. For a brief period of time during this month, the world goes strangely pink. He has learned not to ask questions, questions are met with counter measures; punishment, the crackling of electricity as he is reset and put into cryo. The Asset doesn’t ask, but he wonders why his body fights to rebel against the rigor and discipline infused into him, why the colour pink and the shape of a non-anatomically correct heart creates a disconnect in the mind. He- There- Paper. He needs paper.

He doesn’t know why.

His mission almost fails because he’s so lost in the onslaught of  _thoughts_  that he is sure doesn’t belong to him. It’s a violent need that requires self-imposed disciplinary actions to die down. It is. Scary. The Asset almost longs for returning to base, for reset, for cryo, for waking up to a colour and a shape that does not upset him.

* * *

His  _second-first_  Valentine’s happens two years after Steve finds him. Holidays are still strange to him. They aren’t as unsettling as they once were, but it’s like they’re only concepts with no personal feelings attached to them even though he knows he has celebrated them. He has a host of Christmases, Thanksgivings, Fourth of Julys, Easters and other holidays in him, and now they’re all gone. Each one marks a new thing he has to learn. How to respond, how to give, how to celebrate.

Steve takes him to buy Valentine’s cards for the group, says it’s tradition. Bucky tries to decline, the holiday celebrating love and affection still digging at memories that aren’t there. There’s… something ‒ a question? ‒  that tries to dig itself out of the damage, and it is putting him on edge. If Steve notices his unease, he doesn’t comment on it but he hurries through his shopping, making smalltalk about how he’d thought about drawing something, and how Valentine’s Day was the only holiday the girls in their class ever vied for his attention back when they were in school.

Back at the tower, Bucky can feel his heartrate slowly returning to baseline and he ducks into the gym while his friend goes up to sign the pink, frilly cards he bought. It’s calming; changing into the workout gear in his locker, moving his body, the strain on his muscles and the sweat prickling at the nape of his neck. It allows him to unplug from the world for a while, to exist as a separate entity in a small pocket of time and space of his own making.

His t-shirt is drenched in sweat when he lands his final punch to the bag. It’s been over an hour already, and Bucky heaves a sigh. He’ll have to return upstairs, or Steve’s gonna give him another mom-talk about hiding out. At least he can prolong the inevitable by showering in his apartment. Returning to his locker, Bucky freezes when he spots something poking out of one of the slats, something  _pink_. The small hairs on his neck stand on end, his focus stretching, listening for intruders as he approaches his locker. It’s an envelope, tucked into the ventilation slats just enough to keep from slipping inside. Someone’s been here. Bucky snatches the envelope, quickly gathering his clothes and sprinting for the elevator.

There’s no one in sight, and he can feel his breathing speed up. Tony’s AI scans him and he requests to be taken to his floor.

”F.R.I.D.A.Y?”

” _Yes, mr. Barnes?”_

”When was the last time this elevator was used from this floor?”

” _1.24 pm today. Miss Romanov and Mr. Lang completed training and left the gym. You arrived about two hours later.”_

”Did someone-”

He never finishes his question as the elevator comes to a halt, the doors sliding open. Bucky immediately casts his eyes downward. Tony wasn’t the only one who’d picked up a stray during the Accords shitshow. Somewhere in the middle of the worst headache ever, Steve had managed to find you. Or maybe you found them, Bucky wasn’t sure. One minute he was trying to keep steady on his feet, the next he was trying to keep civil and not make an ass of himself stuffed into the backseat of a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle with a strange girl looking him over while Sam whistled obnoxiously from the passenger seat. Steve had needed a car. You had a car. But no matter how much he’d coaxed and pled, you refused to just up and give the car to him. Bucky had to admit it was pretty impressive. It turned out you were a nurse, and the way both Bucky and Sam had looked at the time had probably sealed the deal for you on not letting the car and the prospective passengers out of sight.

By the time they arrived in Leipzig, Bucky felt good as new and Sam had been seen to as well. You tried to convince them to let you come to the airport, saying they’d need a field medic. Sadly, that was where your powers of persuasion fell short. It was one thing to borrow your vehicle, but Steve would not drag you into a fight when you had no way of defending yourself. Bucky had been both pleased to see his friend put his foot down and sad that this was where your ways would part. You’d offered a deal; you’d stay in Leipzig, check into a hotel for the night. If they needed you, they could call, no questions asked.

No calls came, not immediately. Steve did make good on his promise, though not in the way you had expected. You’d returned to Berlin, gotten back to your life, had almost started to believe you had imagined a roadtrip with three Avengers when Steve had knocked on your door, five Avengers in tow, saying they needed a medic. Bucky could never understand how you’d not slammed the door in their faces, but you didn’t. You quietly packed up and left with them.

”Hi, Bucky,” you greet him, stepping into the elevator.

After Tony and Steve had hugged it out, as Tony had put it, you’d decided to stay, adding to the medical team in the tower. It was hard for Bucky to believe you hadn’t always been there, always greeting him and the others with a berating smile and hands on your hips when they straggled in a little worse for wear after a mission, ready to mend them with a soft but steady touch.

”Hi- Hello,” he stutters, giving you the briefest of glances before resuming looking at his shoes.

”What you got there?”

He’s forced to look up again, following your line of sight to the envelope held tightly in his right hand.

”I… found it. Stuck in my locker.”

You give a warm smile, nodding towards it. ”Aren’t you gonna open it?”

Smiling sheepishly in return, Bucky clears his throat, fumbling to push the index finger of his left hand under the flap to rip open the envelope. Inside is a plain white card, decorated with hearts made to look like balloons tied together with a neat little bow. Turning it over, he finds a neat, small script, the words shaking him to his core.

_happy valentine’s day_

_with love, from a mate and admirer_

The thing underneath the surface, the something that has been bothering him, it’s a question.  _Can you make sure we get Valentine’s Day off, Steve? I’m not sayin’ it’s not important to win the war, but come on, punk, we deserve a break._ It’s images of much simpler cards with neat script and a text that is so familiar. It’s memories of sharing the chocolates he got with his sister, of watching Steve draw almost feverishly for the girls in their class-

”Bucky? Bucky, are you okay?”

His head snaps up to find you looking at him, a worried expression marring your features. He holds up the card, showing you both sides and lingering on the text.

”I… I used to make these. Back when- Before. I used to make these for the girls that never got any. I used to sign them almost exactly like this.”

The line that has formed between your eyebrows smooths out, your mouth softening into a smile once again.

”That’s… that was very nice of you.”

”Everyone needs a little love.” It’s an echo from the past, his self surfacing and talking through him.

”They do. You know who it’s from?”

Bucky shakes his head. He knows it’s not Steve, he bought cards, this looks homemade. The elevator comes to a halt again, and you step out giving him a little wave before the doors slide close again. He simply nods his head before returning his attention to the card, thumbing it affectionately all the way to his apartment. It wasn’t like he’d expected to get any valentines, no matter what Steve said about everyone getting something. Steve must have told someone about his card habit. They must have snuck in while he was training, not hearing them in his checked-out state, then taken the stairs up a couple of floors to avoid being detected by the elevator system.

He puts the card on his dresser, shedding his sweaty clothes to take a shower, hoping his thoughts might come together under the relaxing spray. It’s not Steve, he knows that much. Tony and Clint are ruled out, too, as is Vision. The man’s handwriting looks too neat, too measured, Bucky knows this because Tony insisted on giving him that damn-

_that damn birthday card._

It had been Tony’s idea of a joke. Bucky had been adamant that he didn’t want to celebrate his birthday, and while there had been no party, he’d gotten a card. Tony had gone out and bought a birthday card that said  _It’s not every day your young man turns 9!_  and ”subtly” improved it with a sharpie. On the backside, the team had all signed their names. He had a damn rosetta stone lying in one of his drawers.

Hurrying out of the shower, Bucky all but runs to the dresser, pulling out what he’d designated his crap-drawer; a place to put stuff that didn’t belong anywhere else. Card in hand, he grabs the valentine and holds them side by side for comparison, eyes skidding between the two as he eliminated suspects.

Not Steve.  
Not Tony.  
Not Clint.  
Not Vision.  
Not Wanda.  
Not Scott.  
Not Natasha.

Wait.

None of the scrawls on the card matches the one on his valentine. Bucky gives a sigh, dropping the birthday card onto the dresser. He supposes Natasha could have pulled off a convincing fake handwriting, but she doesn’t seem like the kind to sneak around and leave anonymous valentines. It has to be someone who knows him, at least in some capacity, who likes him well enough to leave him a valentine like this. Someone who isn’t on the team, but whom he saw regularly-

_Oh._

Well played.

”F.R.I.D.A.Y?”

” _Yes, mr. Barnes?”_

”I need some information…”

Twenty minutes later, Bucky finds himself walking down a corridor, stomach filled with butterflies. In his hands is a small scrap of paper, and he tries his best not to crumple it too much in his grasp, but his nerves has already gotten the best of him, denting the edges. Finally finding the right door, he takes a deep breath, hesitating before crouching down. He used to do this. It didn’t feel like this back then, that much he is sure of. Biting his lip, he pushes the paper through the small crack, straining his ears to listen for steps. When none can be heard, he gets up, knocking gently on the door.

His heart thunders when he picks up the sound of soft footfall, hoping that his plan will work. A rustle as the piece of paper is picked up sends a surge of joy through him, quickly followed by a need to run away. Bucky forces himself to stand his ground, holding his breath as the door swings open.

”I thought you’d never figure it out.”

It’s like being back in school, a smile tugging at the corners of Bucky’s lips as he sees you, your cheeks sweetly flushed. His note, simple and crude in comparison to your valentine, is held delicately to your chest, and Bucky can’t help the sense of elation in having his words so close to your heart.

”I’m old,” he offers, giving what he hopes is a offhand shrug of his shoulder. ”Takes me a while.”

A pealing giggle escapes you, and you bring up the note to look at it again. ”’S very pretty.”

It’s not, really. He can’t draw like Steve can, and his handwriting is not really the same, the flowing script he’d perfected  is not as appealing anymore. It’s nothing like your card, nothing like…

”Not as pretty as y-” Bucky has to bite his tongue not to get ahead of himself. ”Not as pretty as yours,” he amends, clasping his hands behind his back. ”You didn’t have to.”

”Oh, Bucky…”

You hesitate for a moment before your hand comes up to gingerly stroke along his cheek, the touch both scalding and sweet. Affection, touches, it’s a struggle for him, and he has been more likely to shy away from hugs and even casual handshakes than to reciprocate them, not realizing he’s starved for them. After a lifetime of discipline and punishment, the simple gesture of a hand softly touching him has his eyes fluttering close, his breath leaving him. He realizes the only touch he’s allowed himself to enjoy, to not flinch away from in the past two years has been yours, from the hasty examination in the Beetle to the scheduled check-ups that follows every mission.

”You’re the one who said it,” you tell him sweetly, running your thumb along his jaw and standing up on your tiptoes to place a kiss on his cheek. ”Everyone needs a little love.”

It’s his second-first Valentine’s Day. It’s his best one yet.


End file.
